


Tasting Much Sweeter than Wine

by cmorgana



Series: tumblr is my doom [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-13 20:40:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5716342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cmorgana/pseuds/cmorgana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by the Dolokhov scenes in the first episode of War and Peace. Athos and Aramis, a party, a room and wine. Seriously, how can I give a summary for a pwp? It's sex, nothing more :P</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tasting Much Sweeter than Wine

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this on a tablet at 4am. Honestly, at that time I can't think in Italian, so you can imagine how bad at English I am, but after so much talking about a few of those things on tumblr I had to write this fic, couldn't wait, and here it is.  
> I especially want to thank my wicked muses on tumblr, you know who you are, and the special muse who gets to support (and bear) me every day on whatsapp and who wakes up in the morning to find random messages about the musketeers relationship :P

“You know we’re still at one of the Royal residences and that there are a hundred people a few rooms from here, right?” Aramis comments, not that he really cares. Actually he is definitely past the point of caring. Shirtless, sitting on the lap of a still completely dressed Athos, both of them half drunk and, most important, both of them so hard it’s starting to be uncomfortable, by now he cares so little that the King himself could enter the room and he probably wouldn’t stop the hand caressing his inner thigh.

  
“You dragged me to this terrible party, you got me drunk and, most important, you were the one curious about how I’d be as a noble" Athos says with a scoff at that last part, as if the idea of someone being curious about the old him wouldn't make sense at all, "Well, now I’m about to show you, fuck with the pompous assholes in the other room, they don’t have half a right to judge”, Aramis looks at him with a delighted smirk. It isn’t often that Athos forgets about his background and cusses and, to be honest, it definitely is the first time he cares so little about being caught. For half a second Aramis follows his train of thoughts, of how that means how little Athos thinks of noble people, of how of an hell his life must have been to become like that, but suddenly those thoughts are derailed by Athos shoving the wine bottle in his hand.

  
“Stop thinking, I’m here to show you a Comte debauchery, give me more wine” a grin blossoms on Athos’ lips, soon followed by one on Aramis'. That kind of perverted and hot mood is even rarer on Athos, there’s no way Aramis isn’t going to jump on the chance of getting spoiled by it. With a smirk he leans the bottle toward Athos’ lips, letting him get a few, long sips, before he takes the bottle back, going for his own mouth, but spilling half of the content on his chin and naked chest.

  
“Ops, I’m so sorry, monsieur, I fear I made a mess” for a second Athos grin falters into a smile, but he soon gets it in check. With a quick move he grabs Aramis’ wrist, moving the bottle away from them, while the other hand grabs Aramis shoulder, forcing him to bend down toward him.

  
“We’ll have to do something, then, before you stain my uniform, don’t you think?” and before Aramis can think of a witty or sexy reply Athos' mouth is on him, licking at his chin, at his throat, scraping his teeth on the long column shamelessly bared to him, rough with beard.

  
Athos inhales, the heavy smell of wine and cologne not enough to cover the one he knows being purely Aramis, something musky, definitely male, but with a sweet note to it. Athos could spend hours just lost in that perfume, he loves it as much as he loves to smell it on his body for hours after Aramis left. But not tonight. Tonight it’s all about the risk, it’s all about playing the dominant, rich, libertine, Comte. Or just about making Aramis scream his name, he’s not fussy about which one.

  
Athos’ mouth travels down, biting hard on Aramis collarbone, pressing a smile against it at the idea that he’ll be marked as his for a few days. His clever tongue then travels even lower, running after a drop of wine to tease one of Aramis nipples. He licks around it, scraping with his teeth, without touching the hard nub.

  
“Athos..” a single word in a tone halfway between a menace and a plea.

  
“You spilled my expensive wine, I’m not sure you deserve it” is the short reply, little more than a teasing since a second later Athos' mouth is around that nipple, biting instead than sucking, but he knows how little difference it makes to Aramis, who always loved things that side of rough.

  
Without even thinking, Aramis blindly searches for the bottle near them, his hand almost trembling.

  
“More wine, Sir?” he whispers, pupils dilated, lips red from Athos sucking and biting, chest already scattered in reddish marks. Athos closes his eyes for a moment, trying to regain some composure, at least apparently.

  
“I hope you won’t drop that too…” he starts, but Aramis doesn’t even let him finish and with a devious smirk spills the remaining content on his chest, the red liquid pooling between them, on their leather trousers.

  
With a string of obscenities, mumbled so low they don’t even reach Aramis’ ears, Athos fixes the red droplets running down the toned chest, colouring the sparse hairs and staining the already dark nipples to then go down, lower and lower, to pool in that nice belly button before trailing even lower, along the happy trail that the man wants nothing but to lick.

  
Athos gulps almost loudly. It’s not like it's the first time he has sex with Aramis, nor that they play a game, but he never thought before of that level of debauchery: lying down on a recliner probably more expensive than his own musketeer gear, feet away from the high society of Paris, uncaring about wasting expensive wine and clothes. Not that it's a real waste because he’s sure that wine has never looked better than on Aramis body. He looks like a paint, one of those on the walls of cathedrals, where people stop to stare, astonished. Except it is a paint about sin, not holiness, and that sin is about to be consumed by him.

  
“Ops, I fear I did, what are you going to do about it, master?” another one of those names, leaving Aramis' lips as a purr, and Athos is pretty sure the game will be over even before it can start.

  
“I don’t like wasting good things” he just replies, probably lamely, but by now he’s far from caring about that too. In a swift move Athos grabs Aramis suspenders, dragging him closer, forcing his hips to still, “don’t even think about grinding on me and getting off”, he growls as a menace before he attacks that chest again, feeling Aramis shiver under his lips, he goes back at biting and sucking the damp nipples, teasing the hard nubs in his mouth, hands still keeping him blocked.

  
“Athos, please”, Aramis asks in a beg. He loves foreplay, but he’s too far gone, too close to coming just having his chest sensually tormented. Athos hair are dishevelled, his beard a mess of spit and wine, his lips almost redder than the drink and in his eyes there’s the determination of a mad man. Aramis has never wanted something so much in his whole life.

  
“Please what?”

  
“Please, do me anything you want, just do something now” Aramis doesn't care about begging, he’d go down on his knees in that precise moment if it’s to move things forward. Athos seems to think about it for a moment, then nods.

  
“Get up, take off that mess of clothes”, an order. Not a request, not a demand, just an order, in the same tone he’d use on the battlefield, and Aramis fights the need to touch himself and, probably, come in his own trousers half a stroke later. Instead, without a word, he obeys, aware of Athos stare on him and yet, for once, without making a show of it. He just wants his clothes off, he just wants to be back on Athos lap, to feel the rough leather against his leaking cock.

  
The moment Aramis is naked Athos trusts his hand toward him. An invite. Another order. One Aramis is even less prone to disobey.

  
“Finally”, Athos groans under his breath, hands already roaming all that naked skin, skipping the most sensitive places to avoid furthering things too quickly. He reclines even more on the couch, lifting only to reach for Aramis belly, to lick off the faint traces of the wine left in the hollow of his button, going down, along that happy trail he’s being eyeing for minutes that feel like hours, and he’s suddenly hit by Aramis smell, similar to the one he was searching for in his neck, but ten times stronger, then times sexier. He tugs on his hips, forcing Aramis to lose his balance with a huff, and to grab the couch armrest over Athos head, but before the younger man can realise what is happening Athos mouth is tracing the lines of his groin, the delicate skin in the hollows of his internal thighs, just lapping at it, savouring the mix of leather, sweat, wine and Aramis, rolling it on his tongue to memorize it. Aramis moans shamelessly, head thrown backwards.

  
“Come closer, ‘Mis”, Aramis' eyes suddenly open hearing that word. It’s a nickname Athos used only once or twice before, something intimate that, obviously, slipped his lips without him noticing, and every time has meant the best sex of his life but also the most consumed and tender expression in Athos' eyes, something that Aramis would dare call love. Aramis stills for a moment, lost in his thoughts, but Athos hands are there, on his hips, gently nudging, “I know”, he whispers, as if he’s reading his mind, as if he wants to confirm that it wasn’t just a slip of tongue, “now let me take great care of you” and with that he thugs harder, until Aramis is practically straddling his throat, eyes huge for what Athos just said and pupils dilated for what is about to happen, “Closer. Straddle my face, ride my mouth” and that’s it. Any rational or romantic thought suddenly gone from Aramis mind, all he can think about is the offer he just received, something he never had the occasion to try with Athos before, something that, somehow, seems dirtier than just having Athos kneeling between his legs. But while his mind shuts down his body takes the reins and in a moment he’s over Athos face, the man’s hands tight on his hips, enough to bruise, bruises Aramis wants more than anything else, to make sure that it’s not a dream, to make sure he’ll remember that moment for days.

  
“Are you sure?” he asks without even knowing why, knowing that Athos never did something he didn’t want to but feeling the need to nevertheless.

  
Athos doesn’t reply, he just guides his hips down and Aramis' cock straight to his mouth, licking around the head a few times before sucking the tip to then force those hips even lower, controlling Aramis' motions, forcing the cock more into his mouth and hollowing his cheeks to suck.

Aramis has to close his eyes, hands desperately grabbing the expensive armrest, fingernails ripping it instead than Athos’ skin. He already feels close, dangerously so, but he’s going to risk it, anything is better than to have that heavenly mouth taken from him, the strong hands stilling and guiding him. He shuts his eyes tighter, thinking of anything but the mess on Athos beard or his lust veiled gaze. For a moment he’s sure he’s about to regain control, but his efforts are challenged once more by a finger. A wet, cold, slightly sticky, finger probing at his entrance. Aramis' eyes open almost comically wide and Athos laughs. Around him. Eliciting a moan Aramis is sure is heard in half Paris, but he couldn’t care less.

  
“Are you fingering me with fucking wine?” he asks, affronted and delighted by the idea, and Athos laughs again, this time deepthroating him. Aramis can feel the couch give out under his nails. With a breath, praying his body to not embarrass him, he slowly turns his head, getting a glimpse of a wet, long, middle finger entering him at a lazy pace. The problem, though, is when he looks down again, to see Athos beard pressed against his pubes, the man eyes lost in lust and pleasure. As if he is the one having his soul sucked out of his cock.

  
“No more, please, can’t take much longer, don’t…” a moan interrupts his words, long and needy and it takes Aramis a few seconds to realize it's his own while the clever finger bends to torment his sweet spot and Athos tongue teases at his slit, “don’t want to come like that”

  
“How, then?” the words barely intelligible, moaned around his cock. Aramis mentally curses him, but Athos just smirks.

  
“You’re an utter bastard. Ins…oh, shit” The fingers are three now, out of the blue, almost too much, and yet that side of pain that Aramis always loved with his sex, and even if Athos hates to hurt him in any way, he’s not one to refuse his lover whatever pleases him, “Inside. Fuck me. right.now” and at those words Athos tightens the hold on his hips, this time forcing him up, on his feet, letting Aramis know that he's about to make sure that's going to be his last coherent sentence for a while.

  
Athos gets up almost graciously, with a smirk, glad that Aramis asked to finish things, dangerously too close himself. He looks down at himself, still fully clothed, then at Aramis, naked, bruised, dishevelled, barely able to stand on his own legs.  
“Are you going to get naked?” Aramis asks. Athos shakes his head.

  
“A Comte doesn’t get naked just to fuck a simple musketeer”, he says with a tone that doesn't fit the words, too tender, unable to really invoke the man he once was or, maybe, that his father wanted him to be. He never felt superior to Aramis or Porthos or d’Artagnan, nor he ever felt as if his title meant something more than a distasteful burden. But that, that night, is a game, one that Aramis teased him into, so he may use the words, as long as his lover never believes them. Aramis doesn’t or, if he does he doesn’t seem to care, because his eyes grow even darker at that phrase, his legs shacking a little.

  
“Then take me, Comte de la Fère” and for the first time in Athos life that title doesn’t sound like a pathetic mockery. With a quick movement he pushes Aramis backward, grabbing him by the arm to turn him before shoving the younger man face first against a table, empty bottles falling and shattering on the floor. Before Aramis could ever realize what's going on three fingers are back into him, this time a lot slicker than before. Probably oil, he thinks with a tender smile, Athos never goes anywhere unprepared, not since he met Aramis and Porthos.

  
“Fuck me, Athos, I’m not going to break, I’m just going to bruise and I want it. Make me scream”, the dirt of the sentence lost in the pleading tone, but Athos doesn’t seem to care, lost in the sound of his own name, no more monsieur or sir tonight, just Athos, just them, just two lovers and their passion and that drives him more insane than anything his body could do. All hesitations and thoughts aside, Athos starts to push in, slow and careful, eyes fixed on the point where their bodies are joined, transfixed by how Aramis body seems to want him, how he sucks him inside. Once he’s full sheathed in that tight heat he stops, not sure himself if to make sure Aramis is okay or to regain control of his own body, but his lover seems to have clearer ideas.

  
“Don’t...Fuck me, Athos, damn it! Don't stop now!” an objection made in a breathless whisper and this time Athos obliges, grabbing his hips and pumping in a harsh rhythm, in and out, careful not to hit the right spot, well knowing that the moment he touches his prostate Aramis will lose it.

  
For long minutes the room is filled only by the rhythmic bumps of the table against the wall and by their moaning and panting, nothing more, then, suddenly, Aramis tenses. It takes Athos less than a second to notice the sudden change and stop.  
‘What’s wrong, ‘Mis? Did I hurt you?” voice worried, his own body now tense to stay perfectly still. Aramis shakes his head no.

  
“Just..Just not like that, let me turn, Athos” not a plea or a request this time, but something he wants, and that makes it an order to Athos. The man leaves his body, slowly, and takes a step back, while Aramis turns on the table, keeping himself from winching, knowing too well that any sign of discomfort would be enough to stop Athos for good, and that being the last thing he wants. He goes down to lay over it, legs spread obscenely, “I’m ready, come back to me, Athos” and Athos obeys, like a man enchanted by a mermaid, he just climbs on the table, kneeling among those gorgeous legs, and in a second he smoothly enters his lover’s body once more, accompanied by a long moan.

  
Two, three languid, slow, movements and Aramis grabs his wrists with both hands, blocking them over his own head, against the table, forcing almost all of Athos weight on him to keep him desperately close, to prevent him for leaving for even a second.

  
“Fuck me, Athos!” he requests once more, so close, too close for the languid rhythm, still thinking about the tender nickname, the care, that his lover used with him, and this time Athos obliges, snapping his hips back and forth without any finesse, hitting Aramis sweet spot dead on, over and over, just to hear him moan and beg incoherently until his body goes tight around him and Aramis comes, cock untouched, teeth closed around the tender skin of Athos' shoulder. A few more movements, made difficult by the vice grip around his cock, and Athos is done too, wrists still blocked in Aramis hold, head down, mouth pressed against the man's throat, while his body seems to spend more than just seed inside that hot body, while his chest burns in the desperate need of air and his moans turn into a declaration he’s still not ready to make aloud.

  
It takes them both a few minutes to be able to move again, Athos gently gets out and up, resisting from massaging his own wrists, Aramis fingers already a dark print on them, then he helps Aramis sit. They both look a mess, beards and hair a disaster, skin marked in places clothes will hardly hide, said clothes stained with wine and, in Athos case, even worse liquids, and yet he feels like he could go out there, join all that pompous Nobles, and be the proudest man of all just for having Aramis, just for loving him.

  
“You ok?” he asks, instead, ignoring those feelings, and helping Aramis on his feet. Aramis nods with a smile that soon turns into a yawn, “we’ll have to escape before someone will find out about the mess we made with the carpet and the couch, I couldn’t explain nor pay for them, but what about we ruin the couch a little more first?” Athos proposes, innocence in his voice, and Aramis collapses in his spread arms, letting himself be guided down on the couch, over Athos still clothed chest, clothes that will be forever ruined but that, both of them know, will stay forever in Athos closet.

  
“I’ve never slept in a palace, in the arms of a Comte” Aramis murmurs, half asleep, not hearing the reply given in a huff of breath.

  
“And you never will, because you’re mine and I’m your brother in arms, nothing more.”


End file.
